A Harlan Holiday
by freshouttaideas
Summary: Raylan and Tim celebrate Christmas together - Marshal style. A Harlan Christmas story to bring some holiday cheer to the fandom. Ho ho ho.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Hey all and Merry Christmas, or cheers for whichever holiday you and your family are celebrating over the winter solstice. This is a Christmas story, no holds barred, just for the fun of it. Enjoy. I don't own any part of Justified or EL or F/X and make no money from these silly stories. They are simply shareware for public ridiculousness and a good way to get through the short daylight hours, though as of tomorrow, the days are getting longer again - at least for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere.

Don't drink and drive.**  
**

* * *

**A Harlan Holiday** **– Chapter One**

"Tim," Raylan snarled, exasperated, "stop fidgeting. You're rocking the whole car. How many coffees have you had now? Three large? Next time I have to sit with you on a stake-out, I'm bringing Valium or some kind of alcohol. Maybe even rubbing alcohol. We could probably buy some at the corner store across the street and then we could say it's part of our first-aid kit if Art finds it." Raylan finished his rant and crossed his arms, exuding annoyance.

"What's crawled down your shorts?" Tim drawled slowly but stopped moving his leg, employed some sniper training and sat perfectly still, focused, nearly meditating.

A half hour later Raylan jerked his head over, "Dammit, Tim, is this part of your Ranger training – covert annoyance? Stop it!"

"Stop what? I'm not doing anything?" Tim complained.

"Exactly. It's unnatural and distracting. Just act…normal."

Tim huffed his disbelief. "I think you're the one who should cut back on the coffee. What the fuck's your problem?"

"You're my problem."

"Man, you need a vacation."

And there it was in four words or less – _you need a vacation_ – and he was getting one whether he liked it or not. Raylan tamped down his frustration, aware there was no malice in Tim's choice of words, no evil intent when he poked that particularly fresh burn. It's just that Art had said the same thing yesterday, "Raylan, you need a vacation." Only with Art it was an order, not an opinion. He'd blocked the way out of his office, adamant, until Raylan had agreed to something, anything, somewhere, anywhere, brochures lined up on the desk, pick a card, any card, and now Raylan was booked on a one week all-inclusive trip to the Yucatan Peninsula, the perfect place, according to the Chief, to forget about the disaster that was his relationship with Winona and the disaster that was Arlo's current state of affairs and especially to forget about the disaster area that was Harlan.

Art's motives were selfish and he had felt a twang of guilt, swiftly smothered, while Raylan dialed and booked his flight. Art had booked himself a few days off over Christmas, leaving a skeleton crew of Tim and two other deputies to hold the fort and he didn't want Raylan, the tinder box, anywhere near Harlan during that time. What Art wanted was to relax on his days off – no late night phone calls, no lawyers, no Feds, no bodies. Raylan, on the other hand, felt that the vacation was going to be a worse disaster than anything he could possibly stir up in Harlan or in any of his relationships and said so, but Art had just dismissed him with a smile, holding the door open, a cheerful _Merry Christmas_ his parting shot. Mexico was a long way from Kentucky.

Raylan recalled the whole scene, still seething. He tried to ignore Tim, not to take his mood out on him. He thought irritably about beaches, detesting already the ridiculous umbrella that wouldn't keep the sun off a cancerous mole stuck stupidly in a sickly-sweet drink that couldn't begin to put a dent in a Kentucky Marshal's constitution. Did he even own a pair of shorts? "Shit," he expelled angrily.

Tim rolled his head over, growled through his teeth, "Now what? Is my breathing bothering you?"

Raylan tossed his hat in the back seat and pulled his jacket more firmly around himself in the cold car. What the hell, he decided. He was vaguely certain that Tim probably deserved to get the sharp end of his bad temper, had it coming for something past, present or future. He started poking around, looking for a distraction from thoughts of lounge chairs and palapas. "I can't figure out why you let Rachel talk you into doing this stakeout. She was on the sheet for it, not you. Do you ever say no to her? What's she holding on you?"

Tim's leg started jumping again but the question didn't appear to offend him any. "I don't mind helping her out."

"Compromising photos, maybe?" He tried to catch Tim's expression.

"She wanted to spend the time with Nick. School got let out last Friday. I owe her, but I'd've done it for her anyway." He offered Raylan a fake grin. "_She_ asks nicely."

"You always owe her. She must have something bad on you. She catch you streaming chick flicks? I already know you like _The Bodyguard_."

Tim chuckled good-naturedly, "_Watched_ and _liked_ are two different things. There wasn't a multiplex theater on the base."

Raylan kept at it. "I always had you pegged as an action movie guy, _Black Hawk Down_ and the like."

Tim's chuckling dried out into a sigh. "That movie depresses the hell out me. I can't watch it."

"Well, I guess it's not movies then since you're showing no shame for your lack of taste. She catch you drinking wine spritzers maybe? Not cleaning your rifle? Cheating on your girl? Come on, Tim, what does she have on you?"

Tim shrugged and rolled his shoulders, drew one leg up then the other, cracking the joints in his knees. "Nothing," he finally answered, full slow Kentucky roll out.

Raylan snorted, not buying it, said under his breath, "Bullshit," and winced at how much he sounded like Arlo. "You're always taking the holiday shifts for her. Buddy, you must have one huge debt owing."

Tim stretched as straight as he could in the confines of the front seat of the Lincoln then rolled his head toward Raylan again, his smile sincere this time but unreadable, mouth shut tight. And Raylan gave up, lacking the patience today to try to draw Tim out when he couldn't get so much as a one-word answer from him.

But Raylan was stubborn, too, and one day he'd get to the bottom of the Rachel/Tim mystery. He suspected she'd covered for him, something serious. He'd gotten close once, working his charm on a tipsy Rachel at the office Christmas party last year. She'd let slip that Tim had trouble adjusting his first few months out of the military but then she'd sobered up immediately, clearly regretting even that one cryptic sentence, wagged her finger under Raylan's nose and left him high and dry for details. The two of them, Rachel and Tim, had an unusual friendship, an understanding that defied their disparate personalities, and Raylan respected that. He had some odd relationships himself that he liked to keep private and close. He would never pry – unless maybe he could get Rachel drunk again. Tim was Fort Knox.

Tim sat up suddenly, slapped the dash in a haphazard rhythm, a release of energy, and announced, "I'm going for coffee. You want anything?"

Raylan turned in his seat to get a better view of his stake-out companion, fixed him with an incredulous glare. "What were we just talking about? You're not serious?"

"Sure, whatever. You want anything?" he repeated.

Raylan hesitated, but four hours in a cold car could wear a man down. "Yeah, the usual."

Before Tim could finish flashing the victory grin and open the door, the sky fell in, all of it, a freight train of sound and force, shattering the front windshield and crushing the hood of the Lincoln. Both men were lifted bodily out of their seats with the impact. Raylan stared shocked at the spray of blood and glass and then looked instinctively over at Tim to see if he were injured. Tim's instincts were working too, his sidearm drawn and pointed out the front window at the threat, a mass of meat and blood and bones pulverized on the front of the car.

Raylan did a quick visual check, assuring himself that Tim was alright then quipped, nervous sarcasm, "Go on, then. Shoot it." He waved at the slab of beef. "Quick, before it gets away."

Tim wet his lips, twitched, tempted to put a round in just to make sure, then he turned, eyes wide, to Raylan. "What the fuck?" He slowed his breathing. "Did we hit something?"

"How could we hit something? We're not moving."

They decided at the same time to get out of the car and investigate. Tim's door was jammed shut, the car frame twisted with the impact. Raylan walked around the back, avoiding the mess, grabbed the handle and pulled. A few coordinated pushes and yanks and the two men managed to get it open. A small crowd had started to gather and Raylan waved them back authoritatively, waving his badge, and pulled out his phone to call for help. Tim didn't move, stood staring at the bits until Raylan joined him again.

"What is it?" he asked, hoping Tim had gawked long enough to figure it out.

"Not a bird," Tim offered.

"Really?" Raylan shot back sarcastically. "How can you tell?"

"Can't fly. Obviously."

"Ostriches can't fly and ostriches are birds."

"Ostriches don't wear shoes." Tim pointed at a large black boot on the sidewalk. "Size eleven."

"Huh."

The two Marshals walked around to the front of the car to get a different angle and stared some more.

Tim screwed up his face and said, "Is that…?" He bent at the waist to look more closely. "Is that…?"

"Yep, that's Santa," Raylan confirmed, nodding absently.

Red coat, black belt, white beard, dead. The two of them looked up past the buildings, skyward.

"Makes you wonder – who's driving the sleigh?" Tim pondered.

* * *

The police arrived quickly, taking over the scene and Tim and Raylan stepped back out of the way to allow them room to set up a cordon. The coroner pulled in shortly afterward and stood with the Marshals for a moment, the same look of incredulity on her face when she started taking a visual inventory of the body. Then she, too, looked up to the sky in reaction.

"You're probably wondering the same thing we are," Raylan commented.

"Do reindeer wear diapers?" she suggested.

Tim flinched, picturing the payload.

Raylan took a more careful look at the coroner, searching for a resemblance to Tim, a long lost sister maybe. "No, that wasn't what we were wondering," he said slowly.

"Good question, though," Tim applauded. "Practical."

She smiled and got to work, the familiar motions prompting Raylan to remember why they were standing on this street corner in Covington. He looked across the Ohio River to the Cincinnati skyline then back to the building they had been watching all morning, hoping for their fugitive to appear.

"Shit. Tim!"

Up a ways and across the street, three men were getting into a truck, one looking back over his shoulder at the crowd gathered, curious. It was his fugitive – a hitman Raylan had been tracking now for a month, wanted in connection with a gangland murder in Memphis. They shared a stare.

"That him?" Tim asked, unfamiliar with their prey, starting on the investigation only this morning to cover for Rachel.

"That's him," Raylan confirmed already moving under the police tape and through the assembly of gawkers.

Tim followed quickly, taking the high road up and over a parked car to avoid the on-lookers then onto the street and down on one knee, sidearm out and aiming at the truck now peeling out of its parking spot.

One of the three men was left standing on the curb watching confused as his ride departed in haste without him. Raylan, already on the far sidewalk, moved quickly, running to intercept as the thug pulled a revolver, aiming, his eyes on Tim. Raylan heard three shots fired as he tackled his man to the pavement, hitting him hard and knocking the gun out onto the street. He pulled himself and the man up off the ground, cuffed him, and called to one of the local officers at the dead-Santa scene, waving him over to help out. Raylan passed over his prisoner, pocketed the dropped revolver and ran after Tim who was up again and chasing after the truck.

Tim didn't have to run far – both back tires of the truck were blown and it skidded into a parked car at the end of the block. The two men in the front were wrestling to free themselves from the airbags, inflated on impact. Tim moved cautiously to the passenger side, weapon out. He yelled a warning.

"Hands where I can see them!"

Raylan approached, fingers hovering over his holster. He did a quick check of his partner, thinking about the three gun shots and called over, "Tim? You okay?"

"No, I'm hungry."

"I counted three shots fired. Any of them hit you?" Raylan always did it unconsciously, kept track of gunshots, Marshal-style inventory check and it often came in handy.

"Not unless I shot myself," Tim answered dryly. "I fired all three."

"I see two tires blown. You miss a shot?"

"Miss?" Tim sneered. "Two in the tires, one in the tank. Watch your step. The truck's leaking fuel on the road."

Raylan nodded, satisfied. Looking down, he stepped carefully around the gasoline starting to pool in a dip then continued over to the driver's side and yanked open the door.

"Well, howdy," he greeted smiling, eyeing with amusement the man beating angrily at the airbag. "I've been looking for you. I guess Christmas has come early."

* * *

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	2. Chapter 2

**A Harlan Holiday – Chapter Two**

It was close to 6pm when the tow truck pulled out and down the street with Raylan's Town Car. He watched it go sadly.

"That car is cursed." Raylan shook his head.

"Have you written Santa yet? Maybe you can ask for a new one under the tree," suggested Tim. "Then it'll be waiting for you when you get back from Mexico."

Raylan turned to look at Tim. "Santa's dead, or have you forgotten already. And how did you know about Mexico?"

"Art had me do a run to a travel agent, pick up some brochures."

"Et tu, Brute?"

"It's a vacation, Raylan, not an assassination."

Raylan had retrieved his hat from the back of the Lincoln before it was towed. He set it on his head, patted it down hard while scowling at Tim. "Death by leisure. And you're aiding and abetting."

Tim grinned, cocked his head. "You want to stay and work the holidays?"

"Sure. Trade?"

Tim's grin dropped faster than the temperature at the North Pole. "Sorry, there's no way I'm sitting on a beach."

"But you'll collude to send me?"

Before Tim could respond, the Covington Police detective in charge of the free-falling Santa investigation walked over to chat.

"Well, fellows," he said, friendly, "this is one for the books. Can I charge one of you for the murder?"

Raylan and Tim chuckled and Raylan asked, "Any ID on him?"

"Nothing, just an as-yet-undetermined amount of what looks like heroin stuffed in the pillow he was using for a belly."

Raylan blinked. "Seriously?"

"I kid you not."

"I always thought _White Christmas_ was a reference to snow," Tim added to the conversation. "Guess I'm just naïve."

"Guess we all are," the detective agreed. "How are you boys getting back to Lexington?"

Raylan and Tim exchanged a look.

"Can someone drop us at a car rental?" Raylan suggested.

"Not a problem."

An hour later the Marshals were on the highway driving south, Tim at the wheel. He started rating the Christmas decorations on the farm houses along either side of the road as they passed, giving points for gaudiness, electricity hogging and butt-ugliness. Raylan joined in for while, amused, then slowly relaxed into his seat. Tim watched him stealthily out of the corner of his eye, waiting. Raylan pulled his hat down over his eyes and eventually his breathing evened out. Tim took this as his cue to accidentally let the car drift over the line and onto the rumble strip. Raylan jerked awake with the sudden noise.

"Tell me you're not falling asleep at the wheel with all that coffee in you," he grumbled.

"Gee, sorry Raylan," Tim trolled. "You trying to sleep?"

"Apparently not."

Tim looked over grinning, said, "You'll have plenty of time for that on the beach anyway, starting tomorrow. You might want to stay awake for these last few hours – enjoy your time while you can."

"Maybe I'll drug you and stuff you in my suitcase, drag you along. I don't see why I should have to suffer alone."

Tim had a tug of sympathy. "Hey, it might be fun," he cajoled. "Who knows, you might meet someone down there who thinks the cowboy hat is cute. Maybe she'll like the smell of bourbon and not talking and will appreciate the hours you keep as a Marshal since she'll see so little of you and that's probably a good thing."

"This is you trying to cheer me up?"

"Yep. Is it working?"

"Nope. Keep trying though, it's amusing."

Their conversation was interrupted by the glare from an intensely Christmased house. They both gawked. "Shit," said Raylan expressively, shading his eyes. "We've got a winner. Imagine their electrical bill."

"Yeah, we won't beat that before we get to Lexington. It's not even a race anymore. Let's call it."

"Done."

They finished the drive in an easy silence. Tim pulled in at the bar and parked and handed Raylan the keys. "You can dump it at the airport tomorrow. I'll walk from here. This much time in a car – I need exercise… or a drink."

Raylan decided he'd like some of the latter, unless the former involved punching some asshole in the face. That might help his mood. "How about a drink then?" He finished his thoughts aloud, an invitation.

Tim looked over, wavered.

"Bar," Raylan enticed, gesturing out the window to his residence. "Home, sweet home."

Tim wagged his head, eventually giving in to temptation. "Yeah, maybe one."

Raylan leaving on vacation seemed like a good reason to celebrate, or drown sorrows, depending. They toasted dead Santa, Christmas, coroners with a sense of humor, Lindsay, who shook her head patiently and brought another round when she was satisfied that neither of them were driving again that night, Art, Dickie Bennett's hair, the one-armed albino and fallen comrades. Tim felt the last toast deserved at least three shots, just like the truck that afternoon. After four hours, Tim staggered home and Raylan staggered upstairs to pack.

* * *

Tim managed to make it into the office at his usual time the next morning but each tiny movement cost him. He arrived a little pale and every cheerful 'good morning' rang in his ears like a church bell, his head the belfry. He was surprised to see Art sitting at his desk since he was supposed to be starting his vacation today concurrent with Raylan's. Tim sank low into his chair, expecting some pointed questioning or a lecture when Art got up fifteen minutes later and walked into the bullpen eyeing him, but the Chief bypassed his desk, stopped in the center of the room with his arms crossed and watched as Raylan walked through the double doors.

"Just last week I was talking to the Bureau Chief in Cincinnati," Art recounted for anyone listening, an arm out to stop Raylan from getting to his desk. "He was whining about the paperwork he had to do for a shootout involving some of his people and a dead bad guy or two. I told him about you, Raylan, about how it rains bodies whenever I let you out of the office. He thought I was kidding." Art rubbed his head, pouted. "So did I, actually."

"Why are you here?" Raylan asked curtly. "I thought you were starting your vacation today?"

"Why are you here, Raylan?" Art countered. "I thought you were starting your vacation today?"

The stare-down lasted a few minutes. Tim considered taking bets.

Raylan broke first, pointed over at Tim. "Didn't he explain about dead Santa?"

"He didn't need to, Raylan," said Art. "I got a call. Something about it raining bodies...near you."

"He landed more on Tim's side of the car," Raylan stated defensively. "It should count as his."

"Your car, your body," Tim stated holding his head in one hand, coffee in the other and grimacing at each syllable.

It was clear to everyone that Tim was finding talking, or thinking for that matter, particularly painful this morning. Raylan smirked, happy to see someone else suffering.

Tim flipped him the finger when Art turned away, then added, "And besides, you were driving."

"The car wasn't moving."

"Details."

"And I didn't even draw my weapon," Raylan argued then gestured at Tim. "He did."

Art turned to Tim, astounded. "You drew on Santa?"

"He attacked us," Tim explained scowling. "And I never did trust Santa. He scared me when I was little. Always saw him as a threat – old guy with kids sitting on his lap, dressed in red velvet. I mean, come on. That's just creepy."

"Tim, just stop," Art demanded. "For the love of all that is good in this world, I hope you leave your weapons at home when you go to the mall and have to pass by Santa's castle."

Tim shrugged, unperturbed. "I don't do Christmas shopping. I opted out years ago."

"Thank God for small mercies," Art mumbled looking heavenward in mock prayer. He focused back on Raylan. "You have a plane to catch, mister. Out. Now."

"But Santa…"

"Leave the skydiving Santa to the _Air_ Marshals, Raylan. Git!"

"He was killed hitting the _ground_, Art. It's not their jurisdiction."

"It's not ours, either. So out." Art turned Raylan around and started pushing him toward the door.

"And he was in a sleigh not an airplane," Raylan added desperate for an excuse to stay. "Right, Tim? Back me up here, buddy."

"Buen viaje, amigo," Tim responded waving calmly.

Raylan huffed and stomped, defeated, out of the office. Art turned back to pack up, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of a week of TV and relaxing on the couch.

"Are the Air Marshals really handling this?" Tim asked, looking blearily at Art. "Or do I have to write up the report explaining to all the kids why Christmas is postponed this year until we can conduct our investigation? You want me to put out a BOLO on a red sleigh and eight reindeer? License number H0H 0H0."

"Shut up, Tim," Art replied wearily and walked out the door.

"This is exactly why I opted out," Tim continued, talking to the empty office. "I couldn't take all the holiday cheer and good will. It's depressing."

* * *

"Marshals Service, Lexington Bureau, can I help you?"

Tim held the phone a little farther from his ear. "It's Deputy Gutterson, your honor." A pause. "Yes, your honor, I'll be right down."

Tim stood up and walked across the office, stood a moment in front of Deputy Garcia's desk, waiting to get her attention. They were the only two in currently and he wanted to let her know that he was stepping out.

She looked up, phone cradled against her ear, covered the mouthpiece with a hand and asked, "What's up?"

"Reardon's demanding an audience."

"Oh, sorry. Good luck." She smiled, commiserating.

Tim trudged to the elevator. He wished Garcia had picked up the call because he dreaded being alone in Reardon's chambers. A five minute conversation would take an hour while Reardon tried to pry out details of Tim's Ranger days.

"Well, hello there, son, come right on in," Reardon greeted, a crocodile smile for Tim who hovered warily in the doorway. "I'm always happy to have a certified war hero in my chambers. They left you holding the fort upstairs, did they?"

"Not exactly, your honor. I'm the junior Deputy of the three." Tim hoped that might stop the conversation cold, but Reardon was an unusual chemical mix. Everything was fuel for the fire with him.

"Maybe, but I'll bet they'd fall in behind you if the shit hit. Am I right? Hooah! Rangers lead the way."

"They're a tough group upstairs, your honor."

"Ha, and modest, too. Tell you what, son, I'll give you the same privilege I give anyone who's had to pull the trigger on a man. You can just call me 'sir,' a little less formal now that we're acquainted."

"Yessir."

"You snap that out like a pro."

"I've had plenty of practice. What can I do for you today, sir?" Tim was hoping for a quick answer.

"Apparently a subpoena has gone astray," Reardon explained. "It was supposed to have been delivered a few weeks ago." He looked down on his desk at a report. "Says here that…well, actually it was you who delivered it, but uh, the fellow whose name is on it says you didn't."

"Well, I can assure you, I did, sir."

"I don't doubt you, Deputy, but he decided not to show up in court yesterday. I need you to round him up. Maybe a few days in jail over Christmas will smarten him up."

"Yessir, I'll get right on it." Tim walked to the desk, hand out for the paperwork, but Reardon wasn't finished yet and wouldn't relinquish the report.

"So, Deputy Gutterson," he started and Tim crawled under his shell, "they tell me you saw a lot of action in Afghanistan."

Tim wondered who 'they' were, replied vaguely, "I saw some, sir."

"What was your worst day?"

"Hard to narrow it down, sir."

"Aw now, I'm not letting you off that easy. There must have been one particularly grueling firefight – you up against the enemy hordes, a day that made your hairs stand up?" He looked eagerly at Tim, eyes glossing over in anticipation of a tale of blood and guts and heroics.

Tim drew in further.

"I'll bet there was one memorable day when you heated up that rifle good."

Tim's ears started roaring and he looked around the room for a place to take cover. Then the sound of his phone cut through the white noise. He pulled it out automatically, lifted it to check the display and saw an escape. "Sorry, your honor, uh, it's my coworker. We're really working on a skeleton staff right now. If you don't mind, I should…" He gestured up.

Reardon looked disappointed but he wasn't going to get in the way of Marshal business. "Next time then, I'll get a story from you." He handed over the paperwork.

"Thank you, your honor." Tim smiled stiffly and backed out of the room.

He sighed with relief when he got onto the elevator, pressed the button and leaned against the wall, exhausted. Garcia was up and pouring coffee when he got back upstairs. She laughed at the expression on his face and waved the pot, waiting for him while he grabbed his mug off his desk and hurried over with it.

"A Sergeant from Covington PD called," she said as she poured. "He got an ID on your Santa meteorite. His number's on your desk."

"Thanks," he said. "And thanks for the phone call. The timing was epic. I owe you."

"We have to stick together when dealing with The Hammer. You want me to order in some lunch?"

"Please," Tim replied, sitting at his desk, gratefully sipping the coffee. He picked up the phone and dialed the number for the Sergeant.

"Pizza?" Garcia called over.

"I'll eat anything."

He had a short conversation with the Covington Detective, jotted down the name of the Christmas corpse and did a quick search just to satisfy curiosity. It was a slow day. He sat back heavily in his chair when the information came up. He reached for the phone but stopped himself, deciding it could wait until the plane had landed in Cancun before he called Raylan to tell him that their Santa splat was a native of Harlan County.

* * *

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**Author's Notes:** "_Et tu, Brute? - Then fall, Caesar!" Act 3, Scene I, Julius Caesar. _Caesar's last words as Brutus, his closest friend, puts the last knife in his back at the Senate House. Got to love Shakespeare. I'm sure in reality it was less eloquent - lots of screaming.

"_Buen viaje, amigo._" Apparently that's '_have a nice trip, buddy_', in Spanish. Hopefully I got it right.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Harlan Holiday** **– Chapter Three**

Raylan waded through the humidity and the thick aromas of tropical paradise and sunscreen to the air conditioning of the hotel lobby. The cowboy hat, the dark jeans, the dark long-sleeved shirt and jacket, the motion of his eyes sizing up every member of the staff, every vacationer, the purposeful stride and the set of the mouth, all of it combined to give anyone watching the impression that Raylan was more local than tourist, certainly not here for sun and pleasure.

A round man in a garish shirt stopped him, his gaggle of kids and his round wife standing nearby with hopeful expressions. "Can you tell me when the bus leaves for the Mayan tour?" he asked.

Raylan squinted, adjusted his hat, sized the man up. "You're taking your family?" Eyebrows raised, his tone was incredulous.

"That's right," the man beamed. "Our first trip into the jungle."

"I hope you're armed if you plan on leaving the hotel grounds. There's cartel activity all over Mexico." Raylan smiled grimly, tipped his hat to the man's wife, a polite "Ma'am" and continued to the front desk.

He inspected his room after checking in, opened the sliding door to his balcony, happy to be on the seventh floor, and looked over the rail to the pool and the beach beyond. He watched one of the staff, dressed up as Santa in swim shorts, walking among the guests handing out candy canes. He huffed, pressed his lips together, determined to be unappreciative of the scenery, then walked back inside to the phone and called room service, ordered a bucket of beer and some snacks. When it arrived he tipped the waiter then put the deadbolt on the door, kicked off his boots and peeled off his socks and settled on a chair on the balcony with a cold beer. Turning on his phone he checked for messages, just one from Tim, likely more of Gutterson's taunting, so he decided to leave it until the morning. He turned his cell off, slipped out of his jacket and shirt for the casual comfort of a beater, set his feet on the second chair.

The icy lager was an elixir on his dry throat. He took another long drink and sighed, dropped his head back on the chair and closed his eyes. The warmth in the air seeped into tired and tense muscles and the sound of the waves smoothing themselves on the beach calmed, but there was no way he could take a week of this.

* * *

Tim clocked out at 5pm and picked up take-out on the way home, deciding to leave Reardon's errand until the next day, Christmas Eve. The man he was supposed to round up, Chester Cramer, had been in the courthouse for another court-ordered appearance when Tim had served the subpoena a few weeks ago. Chester was hapless, a follower, an expression on his face that flip-flopped constantly between eager to please and eager to appear mean. Tim summed up his character with one word as he slapped the paper in Chester's hand – unlucky. At the time, Tim thought it was the easiest subpoena delivery he'd ever had to make, a simple matter of a short elevator ride and a short wait outside the courtroom – he should have known better. It was too easy and now he was going to have to pay for it with a trip down to Harlan on Christmas Eve.

He was disappointed that Raylan hadn't returned his call before he finally flopped into bed – he had juicy news over and above the surprise discovery that pancake Santa was likely a distant cousin or something. Tim had phoned the Covington detective again after his pizza lunch, leaving a message asking bluntly but politely for an update. The detective was obliging and the information was interesting. He called Tim at home that night interrupting a network special airing of _The Grinch Who Stole Christmas_ to talk. Whoville was ignored for the more interesting story of a Santa without a parachute.

"He fell out of an airplane apparently, not a sleigh," the detective started, stating the obvious. "He and a friend from his home town were in Mexico for a week, on vacation if you believe the story. The airline says Santa missed the flight, wasn't on the final manifest. The flight was heading to Chicago - they had to make an emergency landing at Cinci International with a sick passenger. They figure Santa had hid up in the wheel well, froze to death according to the coroner's report, fell out when they dropped the landing gear. They found a Santa hat caught up inside. Almost funny – Santa hitching a ride on an airplane."

"Maybe he's having a labor dispute with the reindeer," Tim suggested. "And the heroin?"

"Close to 10 kilos."

"Shit."

"Good hiding spot, a Santa belly," the Detective commented. "Though you'd think he'd know that you can't survive at 20,000 plus feet. You only have to read the papers to get stories just like this of folk trying some illegal immigration and dying for their efforts."

"Maybe he chickened out trying to get through security. _Mules is so stupid_." Tim replied, quoting his favorite Bugs Bunny character. "And I'll bet the man in charge couldn't care less."

"The DEA will be all up in my face about this tomorrow morning. I'd start with the O'Hare ground crews if I were them."

"Can you give me the name of his accomplice on the flight?" Tim asked. "I have to head down to Harlan tomorrow anyway on other business. Maybe I can round him up for you."

"Sure thing, that'd save us some trouble. I called the locals there. They're already looking for him. His name's Chester Cramer. Hold on and I'll give you an address."

Tim was suddenly wishing he'd taken care of Reardon's business immediately, but he also suspected that it didn't really matter - it wouldn't be as easy finding Chester the second time. "It's okay," he responded, a bad feeling in his gut. "I got it already. He's my business down in Harlan tomorrow."

The detective chuckled, his laugh dry, saving his humor for his kids at Christmas. "Seriously? Got to love these coincidences. You couldn't write this stuff."

* * *

Tim tried Raylan again before bed, then again the following morning before getting in his truck and heading south to Harlan. Raylan finally decided to pick up and deal with his tormentor when Tim called him again from a gas stop on the interstate.

"Tim," he answered calmly. "I was hoping you'd give up eventually and leave me alone in my misery but you're not going to, are you?"

"Jesus, Raylan," Tim snapped. "Since when do you _not_ answer your phone?"

"Since I'm on vacation."

"How's the sun?" Tim asked, standing in a steady drizzle in the gloom of the fluorescent lights at the pump.

"Sunny."

"Got a cute little umbrella in your drink?"

"Tim, what do you want? You're keeping me from the all-inclusive bar."

"Just thought I'd tell you, 'cause you'd probably get all pissy with me if you found out later that I hadn't called, though to be honest I don't know if Art…"

"Tim, get to the point."

"Apparently your long lost brother, or cousin or something, likes dressing up in traditional Christmas garb and..."

"Tim, if you don't get to the point, and fast, I'm going to catch the next flight, come up there and beat you senseless with my cute little umbrella."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Santa's from Harlan – killjoy. Don't appreciate a good build up to a good story, do you. And why didn't you say you were related to Santa? That's a pretty awesome connection, not that it'll do us any good now that he's dead."

"Wait, back up. He's from Harlan?"

"That's what I said. Are you drunk already? So, when were you going to tell me that you're Santa's brother or cousin?"

Tim could hear the huff even though it had to bounce off a satellite and back. He smirked.

"I'm not related to _everyone_ from Harlan, Tim," Raylan growled. "And I'm an only child."

"Being an only child doesn't mean you escape undesirable relatives." Tim had finished at the pump and was pacing the pavement, talking and waving a hand. "So anyway, Santa and his buddy, Chester – also a relative I assume since he's also a Harlan native – were taking a nice vacation in Mexico but Santa got drunk, disappeared and missed his flight. At least, that's what Chester said in a phone interview, and I, for one, believe him," he added dryly. "The ten kilos or so of heroin must have been put there by someone else. I wonder how he couldn't notice someone slipping heroin into his pillow. Never leave your belly unattended."

Raylan was only half listening to Tim's sarcastic drabble. "I'll catch a flight back this afternoon."

Tim stopped pacing. "No, you won't. Art'll skin you. Then he'll skin me for calling you."

"I know Chester, Tim. Weed, yes; heroin, no. If he's involved with this then someone is in Harlan recruiting."

"Raylan, the DEA are on it as of this morning."

"The DEA have no presence in Harlan, Tim. They'll trip over a couple of slag heaps and head home crying."

"Raylan, I like my job. Don't make me shoot you."

"Where are you now?"

Tim sighed in defeat, damned either way from the start. "On the slippery slope to Hell…I mean Harlan."

Tim waited for the huff. "Raylan? Raylan? Shit."

He stood in the rain and hung his head, imagining the lecture from Art. "Shit." Tim climbed in his truck. "Rangers lead the way," he drawled.

* * *

The drizzling continued all through southern Kentucky. Tim sat in his truck, wipers flicking intermittently to clear his view of Cramer's house. It looked deserted, except for the fresh tire tracks in the yard, maybe visitors, maybe someone turning around, lost, maybe Chester making a quick return for something then clearing out.

Tim had stopped first in town, wandering into a few shops buying the odd item, a diner for a coffee and pie, falling back into a thicker accent and asking easy questions about his old buddy Chester – just looking him up for old-time's sake, catch up over a drink in Cumberland maybe. The people were friendly enough, even with a boy from northern Kentucky. Tim kept a baseball cap worn easy, jacket buttoned up against the rain, soggy and shaggy enough to look harmless. No one had seen Chester the past few weeks, Tim discovered. He'd been in a bit of trouble recently and they wondered if he was in custody somewhere. Tim shook his head, understanding the situation and sorry for it, then drove to the address he had for Chester.

After watching the property for an over-cautious hour, he checked his sidearm and stepped out of his truck, looked up and down the road once and headed across to the house. He knocked, a louder second time, called out but got nothing back. He turned on the spot, eyes roaming over the property to satisfy himself that he was alone then he did a full circuit of the outside of the house, peering in windows and poking into the woodshed in the back. Standing discouraged in the rain, Tim considered his next move. It was a long drive back to Lexington empty-handed, but he didn't relish spending Christmas Eve in a cheap motel in Harlan, either. He climbed the stairs to the porch for a last look around and tried the door. It opened, not necessarily meaning anything out here on a back road, but Tim stopped cautiously and called out again. The house was absolutely still so he stepped inside, a quick glance around the main room then through to the kitchen.

There was sudden movement to his left…then he woke, head throbbing, tied up like a Christmas turkey, shaking and baking in the trunk of a car.

The road got a whole lot worse and Tim started to regret the pie he'd had earlier. The car stopped finally and the car doors opened and shut again. He heard muffled voices and someone opened the trunk. Bringing his trussed feet up quickly, Tim hoofed the man hard, knocking him backward onto the ground. The next items in his view were two muzzles – and his feet just weren't that good – then two faces. He didn't recognize either of them but he made damn sure he would if he saw them again.

His kidnappers picked him up out of the trunk and dragged him through the forest a ways. They stepped into a makeshift structure and Tim started to panic and twist in his ropes, knowing where they were taking him. But there really was nothing he could do. One of the men, definitely _not_ a relative of Raylan's Tim thought with the cold humor of a condemned man, smothered a rag on his face and he immediately started to drift. They untied him; his foggy head found that odd. He fought as best he could with rubber arms and legs as they tossed him into the mine shaft. His mind flashed a picture of the broken Santa doll on the hood of Raylan's car in the long weightlessness before he hit bottom.

* * *

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**Author's note:** Name that Bugs Bunny character.


	4. Chapter 4

**A Harlan Holiday – Chapter Four**

Raylan waded through the puddles and the drizzle and the scurrying, disgruntled crowds of last-minute holiday travelers coming and going to the airport terminal. He was glad for his hat, turned up his collar and hunched his shoulders against the cold and the rain. At the rental lot the attendant, grumpy, pointed out a car and Raylan didn't bother with small talk. A fast checkout and he was on the road to Lexington, windshield wipers frantically surfing the waves of dirty water spraying up from the highway. He grinned, happy to be back in Kentucky. He thought he'd never feel that way and chuckled wryly at his own inconsistencies – just another example of life's little ironies lying in wait in your path and tripping you up.

When the traffic thinned out east of Louisville he tried calling Tim but there was no answer, likely out of range in a holler somewhere in Harlan County. He decided to stop by the office first, collect some things then head straight south if he hadn't reached Tim by then. Raylan had lucked in with the flight, a direct Cancun to Louisville charter that a flash of the badge had opened a seat on. There had to be some perks to being a US Marshal.

Garcia was still in the office when Raylan pushed through the doors shortly before 5pm. She was packing up a bit early, a concession for the date. Christmas Eve came only once a year.

"Raylan?"

"Hey. Is Tim back?"

"No, not yet. What are you doing here? I thought you were on a beach."

Raylan shook the rain off of his hat, said, "Yeah, that seems to be a common misconception."

"Apparently, because Art thinks you're on a beach, too."

Raylan chewed his lip, winced then smiled charmingly. "You're not going to call him and correct him, are you?"

Garcia raised an eyebrow, got busy turning off her computer. "I am not involved. I never saw you. I was just leaving. Gosh, look at the time." She grabbed her bag and jacket and sprinted for the door and out. A second later she poked her head back in. "Merry Christmas, Raylan."

Raylan grinned. "Merry Christmas. Uh, Garcia?" She stopped. "Would you mind dropping by Tim's place on the way out, see if he's home? It's a long shot."

She stepped back in the doors, hands on her hips. "Should I be worried? Should I call Art?"

"Not yet," Raylan replied. "It's a long drive to Harlan and back. Let me check on a few things first."

She nodded. "I'll call you when I get there."

"Thanks."

He sat at his desk and turned on his computer, dialed Tim's cell while he waited for the machine to boot up. Again, no answer. He ran a hand around the back of his neck, smoothing the hairs down, started chewing his lip again. "Shit."

He stayed just long enough to get a recent address for Chester Cramer, headed for the door not wasting any time. He turned around at the last minute, went to the armory and signed out Tim's rifle then took the stairs and jogged to his car.

Garcia checked in as he pulled onto the interstate – no Gutterson. He tried calling Tim every fifteen minutes on the drive down, kept half an eye on the oncoming traffic, hoping to spot a familiar vehicle. By the time his headlights hit the Welcome to Harlan County sign his niggling concern had ratcheted up to full-blown worry. If Tim had lost his phone or forgotten to charge it maybe, or was sitting in a loud bar drinking and missing the ring tone, he'd kill him and it'd be justified. He figured even Art would back him on it.

And Chester's house was quiet, nothing out of place except the front door wide open.

It didn't take long for Raylan to decide his next move. He went straight to Boyd.

* * *

Ava was as pretty as a picture. She was decked out for Christmas, dressed in red-light crimson, just enough makeup to deaden a man's thought process but not so much that you wondered what she was hiding, blond tresses blowing gently across her face, a Santa hat perched at an enticing angle, a shotgun pointed down the porch stairs. Raylan focused on the shotgun.

"Get off my property – unless you have a warrant," she purred.

"Now, Ava," Raylan entreated, hands up, best Sunday smile, eyes hard and watching the trigger. "I just need a word. It's business I'm here about, but I don't think it has anything to do with Boyd. In fact, I know it doesn't."

"Then why are you here?" It was a logical question that had an illogical answer.

Raylan took a deep breath, made a face, doubted the wisdom in coming tonight but put it out there anyway. "I was hoping Boyd might be able to help me."

"You need Christmas gift ideas for Winona?"

Raylan felt he deserved that, repeated it aloud for her benefit. "Okay, I deserved that." He took off his hat respectfully, glad the rain had quit. "I was wondering if Boyd had been approached by anyone trying to move heroin through the County. We've already got a body and maybe a missing person and…"

"Merry Christmas, Raylan. Now move along." Ava had heard enough. She waved the way back down the lane with the barrel and turned to walk inside just as Boyd stepped out.

"Merry Christmas, Raylan. I thought you were on a beach somewhere."

"Boyd," Raylan nodded. "I am sincerely sorry to interrupt you on Christmas Eve." His contrite face shifted into muddled and he gestured his thoughts with a vague wave of his hand. "How is it that everyone knows I was going to Mexico?"

The smile in answer was a puzzle for Raylan, but he had another one to work on first. "I was hoping you might be willing to share some knowledge. I suspect it'll be mutually beneficial."

"If I were to share anything with you, Raylan," and Boyd's voice was predatory. "I promise you, it would _have to be_ mutually beneficial."

Boyd turned his head and sent a wave of small motions over his face that Ava seemed able to interpret. She lowered the shotgun and huffed, "Oh, alright. Come on in, Raylan. We'll fix you a holiday drink." She snapped an angry look at Boyd who smiled again just for her.

Raylan stepped up onto the porch and followed Ava inside. Boyd shut the door behind him and motioned him to a chair in the front room. "Store bought or home brew?" he offered.

"Oh, well, if you're offering – home brew."

They settled with their drinks and toasted the season, Boyd's eyes watching. "Raylan, what is it that you want for Christmas?" he prompted.

"Well now, a couple of things, but let's start with Chester Cramer."

Boyd sat back, smiled a Cheshire Cat smile. "Ah," he said.

Raylan was getting impatient with smiles. He waited long enough then prompted, "And 'ah' means what exactly?"

"Well, Raylan, 'ah' can mean many things, but in this case it means Chester's in Mexico...on vacation."

"No, actually, he's back. He was traveling with a friend who landed on my car from a few hundred feet, dressed like Santa and carrying a sack full of heroin."

Boyd never gave up much but it was obvious to Raylan that this was news to him. He looked bemused. "I have reached the conclusion, my friend, that Harlan is the Afghanistan of America," Boyd stated. "Some foreign power is always trying to take control of the trade routes that pass through and the locals tend not to take too kindly to it. And the result is endless war – even over the holidays." Raylan waited for the more pertinent bits; Boyd obliged him. "The last time I saw Chester, he came to me with a plan. I suggested to him that it was ill-advised but apparently my opinion did not sway him."

"And what was the plan?"

Boyd started to speak, but stopped, moving forward to the edge of his seat, leaning in. "The same plan men have been using for centuries, Raylan. History will insist on repeating itself."

"The plan?"

"To use poor men to do dangerous work by waving a few sad dollars in front of them on a stick."

"And who's holding this stick?"

"Mexican cartels, amigo. Kentucky just doesn't seem as obvious as Florida or Texas, surrounded as we are by only state borders. And of course, fewer rich folk in these parts to complain to their senators." Boyd sat back, thinking. "The plan, if I remember correctly, though I admit, it was a difficult plan to forget, was to get past security dressed as Santa Claus. His contact assured him that every airport in a tourist destination had one. All they had to do was hijack the costume and restuff the props and it would give them access to the inaccessible areas of the airport."

"Very seasonal," Raylan commented. "Martha Stewart would be proud." He finished his drink, waved off a second. "I saw enough Santas in Mexico in 48 hours to populate Christmas Island – at the hotel, the airport, even the beach, complete with sunglasses. It wasn't a bad plan."

Boyd had stopped listening and his face had gone flat, his eyes drifting somewhere.

"Something bothering you?" Raylan asked him.

"Chester's not the only missing person in Harlan. I've had an associate lured away and I've heard rumors of at least one other poor man dancing for quick cash."

"Did anyone report them missing?"

Boyd turned his eyes back to Raylan, asked softly, "Who would care, Raylan? Who would care?"

"I would care."

"And why would you care? Feeling maudlin for childhood days in Harlan?"

"No, something a little more current. I think a Marshal from my office is among the missing."

Boyd was more attentive, shot a furtive glance to the kitchen. "I was intending to play the role of the guerrilla leader, rally the locals and roust our foreign occupiers, but I was asked to wait until after the holidays."

"It's just a date, Boyd. Why wait?"

"Guerrilla or UN, Raylan? Where are your loyalties?"

"Guerrilla…until after the holidays."

Boyd's smile was open this time. "I'll get my gun."

* * *

Tim figured he was dead. There was nothing, an absolute nothing – no sounds, no light, no sight, no movement. He lay there thinking, now what? He waited. Eventually he attempted to shift a little. His arm was pinned under his torso and it started to tingle and ache as he moved. He decided maybe he wasn't dead after all. He gingerly tried all of his limbs, asking them in turn to do a trick for him and was happy when they all complied. He had two different headaches now, throbbing out of sync, or maybe three – he couldn't stop any of them long enough to sort out the rhythms and count them.

Reaching out with his hands he started to feel for his surroundings. The blackness pressed against him, more real than he was with more substance and weight. It was disorienting. He continued to explore with his fingers, above first, to see if there was a lid to the darkness, relieved to discover there wasn't, and then out to the sides. He felt another arm. It wasn't his.

Trying to capture any stray light, his eyes snapped open so wide it hurt. His heart started racing, his breathing struggling to keep up, and now he could smell the rot. The panic hit him hard. Maybe he _was_ dead. Maybe this was hell. He wrestled down the fear and willed himself not to react without thinking. Then memory of the afternoon's events came back, flashes and snapshots, and added a new anxiety – he was suddenly more pragmatically petrified of stumbling off another edge into a second drop off. He sent out cautious feelers, groping to his right – rock – then his left – a body attached to the spare arm, then another arm…and another arm. The panic returned. He rolled to his right, his hands scraping along the rubble frantically until he was clear of the corpses. His rational mind concluded they were his landing pad, his unwitting saviors; his irrational emotions wished he'd hit rock instead.

A few feet of crawling and his hands found a vertical. He turned and shuffled over, leaning against it, drawing up his knees and wrapping his arms around them. He dropped his face into the sleeve of his jacket to deaden the smell.

He was worried he was going to pass out again and fought it. Merry fucking Christmas, he thought desperately.

* * *

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	5. Chapter 5

**A Harlan Holiday – Chapter Five**

"Where are we going?" asked Raylan.

Boyd had suggested that he drive, his old pickup blending in with the Harlan flora and fauna much better than Raylan's foreign-made rental. He hadn't said a word after agreeing to help, just quietly collected his revolver and a shotgun, kissed a scowling Ava and walked out the door.

Boyd returned Raylan's question with another question. "Where was your Marshal friend going?"

"To pick up Chester Cramer."

"And obviously he had no luck with that. And I can assume that you went past Chester's abode before coming to see me?"

"Place was empty, door wide open. Some recent tire tracks. No Chester, no Tim. Is Chester's brother still in Harlan?"

Boyd nodded. So that's where we're going, thought Raylan, and settled in for the ride. He had no illusions about Boyd – Boyd was here to protect his interests in the County, prevent any outsiders from getting a foothold – but Boyd, like Tim, was a good man to have around when it snowed shit. And Boyd was smart enough to want to avoid the blood of a Federal officer smeared within the boundaries of his world because then it wouldn't just snow, it would be a blizzard of shit coming down on him. There was motivation that Raylan could trust. Today their paths were conveniently running in the same direction.

It was after midnight when they pulled up at a house. Chester's brother, Samuel, answered the door cautiously, loaded shotgun and suspicious expression.

Raylan put on a martyred look, sighed dramatically. "I'm starting to think the folk in Harlan need a refresher about peace on earth and good will to men and all that Christmas spirit stuff."

"What do you want?" Samuel asked curtly, skittish.

"I don't suppose you remember me. I'm Raylan Givens."

"I remember you, Raylan. Ain't you a Marshal now?"

"I am." Raylan displayed the star then looked pointedly at the shotgun. "Now I'm asking myself, who would Samuel Cramer be expecting this late on Christmas Eve other than Santa Claus? And greeting Santa with a shotgun," Raylan tutted, shook his head sadly, "Samuel, I think that places you firmly on the naughty list."

"I don't believe in Santa anymore, Raylan."

"I suspect he's lost faith in you, too."

"And I'm not expecting anyone," Samuel added.

"Uh-huh. So you always answer the door with a loaded shotgun? Is that traditional at Christmas now in Harlan, Boyd? I haven't lived here in a while. Maybe I'm out of touch."

Boyd had hung back, staying out of sight. When Raylan called out to him he stepped into view and Samuel switched his attention to the wrong man. Raylan reached over quickly, snatched the shotgun out of Samuel's grasp and shoved him backward into his house.

"We just want a word, Samuel, and I find it hard to think with a shotgun in my face."

Boyd followed them in, unhurried, moving deliberately, confidently, shut the door. Cramer watched him, swallowed hard then glanced back at Raylan who'd moved past him to peer into the other rooms on the main floor. It was clear that Cramer couldn't make up his mind which side of the law to be most afraid of.

"Merry Christmas, Samuel," said Boyd and it came out a threat.

"Uh, Merry Christmas, Boyd," Samuel replied nervously.

"We're looking for Chester. Where is he?" asked Raylan.

Samuel's head snapped around at the sound of Raylan's voice. "I don't know."

Raylan walked around slowly, a cautious check of each room, then finished up his tour in front of his host, said, "There's only one thing I want for Christmas, Samuel, just one thing on my wish list for Santa. You'll probably never guess what it is, so I'll just tell you. I want the Marshal back who came down to Harlan early this morning looking for your brother. He's a sarcastic little shit, about this tall," Raylan held his hand level at Tim's height, "annoyingly talented with firearms, kind of skinny, north Kentucky boy. You seen him?"

Samuel shook his head, no.

"Well, he was down here hunting for your brother. Do you have any idea where I might start looking for them?"

Samuel repeated the head motion, no.

"Samuel," Raylan started again, patiently, "I am prepared to be very naughty to get what I want for Christmas if nice isn't working for me." Raylan made a show of taking off his star and slipping it into his pocket then pulling his revolver from his back holster and ensuring it was loaded. "Now, you must have some idea where I can start looking. I remember you as a boy, Samuel, you and Chester, and you definitely had the brains in the family."

Boyd spoke up this time. "I hear he's been doing a job for some narcos visiting from south of Texas."

Samuel was starting to perspire. "I don't know anything about any Mexicans, honest."

"No, you've heard something," Raylan prompted, waving the muzzle of the revolver under Samuel's nose.

"Look, I haven't seen Chester for almost a month. He said…well he didn't say much last time except that he was into some good money and he was working for Dean. I heard Dean was the one dealing with the Mexicans."

"Dean Emerson?" Boyd stepped forward.

Samuel nodded vigorously.

Raylan and Boyd exchanged a look and Boyd gestured at the door.

"Thank you, Samuel, and Merry Christmas." Raylan tipped his hat and followed Boyd outside.

"I hope you get what you want under the tree, Marshal," Samuel called out, feeling more relaxed now that he was looking at the backs of the two men.

"Rest assured, I will."

* * *

Tim woke the second time with a clearer head. He was used to the rot by now, his sense of smell over-whelmed and shut down. It took a few minutes of staring at Chester's pale face for Tim to realize that it must be Christmas morning. There was a gray and cheerless light sneaking down the rock chimney – it chased away the fear and left a stocking full of anger. Tim unwrapped the lot and sat chewing on it. Someone up above was going to have a discussion with his Glock and Tim didn't much care which end. Now all he needed to do was get it back.

He stood up gingerly, bruised and stiff, stretched out some kinks and moved around to warm up. Then he eyed the wall of the drop off. He always liked climbing and he was motivated today. He dragged the bodies over as drop mats, Chester and the other poor corpse, apologizing to them as he arranged them strategically, promising to come back and haul them out for a proper burial. Then he studied the rock, took off his boots and socks and tied them to his belt, wrapped his jacket around his waist, chose his route and started up.

He was careful, no risky moves today. He stopped halfway to shake out the muscles on one arm then the other and made sure not to rush the last fifteen feet. He groped around the top edge looking for a good hold and finding one, pulled himself up and over then he sat down and flopped on his back, filling up his sight with the bit of blue sky peeking between the clouds up past the tree tops. He smiled like a little boy on Christmas morning. It was the perfect present, a piece of sky, exactly what he needed. Sitting up, he put on his socks and boots and jacket and stepped cautiously out of the makeshift mine entrance.

There was no sound but the chattering of dead leaves blowing across the ground. Tim was alone and grateful for it. A rough path led down the hill and he followed it to a rutted lane and followed that a mile or so to a road. He stood a moment, uncertain, remembered jostling uncomfortably in the trunk of the car and tried hard to re-enact the last few minutes of the ride. He decided they'd turned left to get to the lane, so he turned right, crossed his fingers and started walking.

After an hour he began doubting his choice of direction – there was nothing out here. He slowed down and turned on the spot, looking carefully for some hint of civilization. A ways farther up the road, just peeking over the next rise, he could see the top of an electrical pole, an encouraging sign, and then he caught a drift of smoke before it disappeared in the breeze. He picked up his pace hoping for a phone.

The smoke was lifting lazily out of the pipe on a small cabin and with luck that meant someone was home. Tim walked softly up the porch stairs and knocked at the door. Looking down at his torn jacket, dirty jeans with the hole in the knee, crusted blood, he worried about the reception he would get. He didn't think about the aroma of rotting flesh that clung to his clothes and soaked into the air around him, lingering even after he took a step or two back from the door.

There was some grumbling and grouching from inside, then the door opened and Tim was surprised to find himself face to face with one of the men that yesterday he swore he'd remember if he saw again. The man who answered the door was even more shocked – he hadn't forgotten Tim, either. His eyes expanded unnaturally as they took in the specter standing on the porch, then he turned a grim white when the stench hit him. Here was the decaying corpse of the Marshal he'd carelessly tossed into a deep pit to die. The sound that finally seeped out of him started as a wheeze then grew in volume to a scream and he stumbled backward and slammed the door.

Tim hesitated, bemused, listening to the panic inside.

"Jesus! Sweet Jesus! Dean, Dean, get up! He's out there. That Marshal's out there! He's a fucking zombie!"

Tim wished he could've enjoyed the moment but the sound of someone loading a round into a pump-action shotgun took all the humor out of the situation, especially when it was followed by the slightly quieter but equally threatening sound of multiple rounds going into the magazine. He ran to the end of the porch and dove over the railing, scrambled to his feet and sprinted, bent over, behind the pickup parked in the yard. He stayed a second, listening for the door, and when he heard nothing he ran for better cover behind a woodpile farther from the cabin and hopefully out of the effective range of the shotgun.

Minutes ticked past in an uneasy silence. All Tim could hear was his breathing. He crawled over and peered cautiously around the end of the woodpile. The door was shut tight and the house was deathly still and Tim wondered if the men had died of fright. A half-hearted chuckle escaped him as he imagined what Art would have to say about that.

Emboldened he snuck back to the pickup and tried the door. It was unlocked. He opened it quietly, crawled into the front seat, keeping low, and searched for keys. Conveniently, they were still in the ignition. He said a prayer to the car thief gods, pumped the accelerator once and turned the engine over. The truck rumbled to a start and Tim jammed it into reverse and backed out of the yard spraying dirt onto the porch. He spun the vehicle around on the road and sped off down the hill.

After putting some distance between himself and the shotgun, Tim slowed down and began to relax, laughing with an edge of hysteria at the absurd events of the last twelve hours. But another pickup in the oncoming lane set him on edge again. He hated being unarmed, watched anxiously as the other truck approached then passed.

Both trucks came squealing to a halt at the same time. Tim backed up and rolled down the window.

"Raylan?"

Raylan was peering past Boyd. "Tim? Jesus, buddy, you look like shit."

Tim grinned widely, a familiar tilt of the head. "Where's your tan, pendejo?"

"Forgot it on the beach, shithead. You remember Boyd Crowder."

"Hard to forget. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you, too, Marshal." Boyd was closer to Tim, lifted a hand to cover his nose.

"Sorry," Tim winced. "I can't even smell it anymore."

"Dammit, Tim," Raylan complained, catching a whiff. "What is that?"

"That's Eau de Chester. I found him." Tim pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes at Raylan. "Can I borrow a gun?"

It was an odd request coming from Tim, never without one. Raylan raised his eyebrows. "You got a story for why you can't use your own?"

Tim huffed, said slowly, "I need one of yours to get mine back."

His request was met with two matching smiles. "Only if we can help."

"Well, I was hoping."

* * *

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	6. Chapter 6

**A Harlan Holiday – Chapter Six**

Tim turned the truck around, pulled off to the side and got out. Boyd parked his truck behind.

"What are you two doing out here?" Tim asked, leaning in Raylan's window to talk. Raylan drew back quickly and swore, waving a hand. Tim's face almost split itself into pieces grinning.

"Shit, Raylan, when did you get so sensitive?" Tim laughed. "You get used to it."

"Not fast enough. Back up, buddy, or I'll be forced to shoot."

Tim's grin didn't falter but he did back up a step or two. "I can't believe it, but I am happy to see you, Raylan. It's a first. I must be in Harlan."

Raylan opened the door and climbed out. "Yeah, well, I'm glad to see you, too. I was getting worried. You okay?"

"No, I'm starving. You got anything to eat in that truck?"

Raylan stared. "How can you think of food with that smell?"

"I think my nose is in shock. I doubt I'd even smell a skunk right now if it walked up and sprayed you."

"Why me?"

"'Cause I already stink," Tim explained. "No food?"

Boyd shook his head.

Tim's shoulders slumped, disappointment evident. "Maybe this is how the zombie apocalypse gets started. Some poor guy is just really, really hungry."

"I'm armed, Tim, just remember that." Raylan moved past him, motioning impatiently for the younger Marshal to go stand at the front of the truck. "There, now you're down wind. So start talking while I get used to the smell. What happened to you? And where's Chester? I'm assuming he's dead?"

Boyd stepped out of the pickup and wandered over to stand behind Raylan. He was carrying his shotgun with him and leaned against the truck watching the road. Tim eyed him warily. He never could get used to how casually Raylan treated Boyd. Tim had seen the crime scene at Tate's Creek Bridge firsthand, and though it was never proven, everyone was sure it was Boyd that killed that skin from Wyoming – and a shot to the back of the head, that was cold, even by Tim's standards.

Raylan read Tim's thoughts, made a wry face and assured him, "Boyd's helping out on this one, Tim. He's as anxious as we are to keep cartel activity out of Harlan. Isn't that right, Boyd?"

"That is correct, Raylan," said Boyd and flashed a game-show-host smile for Tim's benefit.

Tim cocked his head to the side, raised an eyebrow, accepted it all with a sigh. He had given up pretending to steer this absurd roller coaster ride sometime yesterday. He focused instead on Raylan's questions. "Yeah, Chester's dead. I spent the night with him at the bottom of an old mineshaft down the road a few miles."

"Why were you in a mineshaft?"

"Well, I_ was_ going to ask the two fellows in the cabin back there that very question since they're the ones that threw me in, but they were kind of freaking out. I think they were drugged up on something. They thought I was a zombie. _And_ they were armed and I wasn't. I borrowed their truck, thought I'd come back later."

"A zombie." Raylan nodded, as if it all made perfect sense, chewed a minute on the information. "Wait a sec. Tim, how did you survive being thrown down a mineshaft? Generally speaking, people don't."

"Chester caught my fall," Tim replied factually. "I think I bounced."

Boyd was listening, half-grinning. He turned to look at Tim, asked, "These drugged up watchers of too many horror films, were either of them named Dean, perchance?"

"Yeah, there was definitely a Dean."

Boyd shifted his feet, pushed off the truck, gave Raylan's back a calculating look. "Well, Raylan, are you satisfied now that you've found your friend or shall we continue on and have a conversation with the next man on our list?"

Tim answered instead, pointed down the road. "You two can do what you want, but I'm going to get my guns back. I guarantee one of those assholes has them. Then I'm going to go get my truck and it'd better be in one piece. No wait...I'm going to have a shower and burn these clothes first, then I'm going to get my truck. And then I'm going to eat till I fall asleep – preferably at home."

"I think I'd still like a word with Dean," mused Raylan. "Someone needs to answer for Chester." He unclipped his back holster and held out his revolver for Tim. "Treat her nicely, she's an old favorite." Then he opened the door on Boyd's truck and pulled out a familiar rifle. Tim's eyes lit up. "You can do what you want with this." He tossed over some extra ammunition with it.

"I could kiss you," Tim said, handling the rifle lovingly.

"Me or the rifle?"

"You."

"Don't."

"Marshal, what were the boys up the road packing?" Boyd asked, all business.

"A shotgun at least – pump action."

"That it?" Raylan inquired.

"Shit, Raylan, I don't know. You want me to go back and knock and find out? They likely have my Glock, my Beretta and my revolver, too," he added, annoyed.

"And you say they're acting like they're under the influence of something? Weed? Meth?" Boyd pressed for details.

"They had to be. I don't care how dumb they are, only a drug-addled brain would think I was a zombie."

It was hard not to laugh but Raylan and Boyd made the effort.

"What?" Tim demanded angrily.

"Actually buddy, you'd be pretty convincing as a member of the cast of the Walking Dead. Just put your arms up and stagger around a bit and say, grrrrr."

Boyd snorted.

* * *

Tim slipped the truck into neutral, killed the engine and coasted the last few yards to the side of the road across from the cabin, put on the emergency brake when the pickup stopped rolling. He slouched down in the seat and crawled out the opposite side with his rifle. Crouching behind it, he waited. Raylan and Boyd came at the cabin from the side, sneaking through the forest then sprinting the last few yards to the front of the porch, staying low and out of sight.

When they were in position, Raylan shook his head and rolled his eyes at Boyd who started to snigger. Raylan ran a hand over his face, trying to compose himself. He threw a quick glance across the street, checking on Tim, then took a deep breath and did his best zombie moan.

They could hear movement inside and someone squeaked, "Oh, Jesus. It's back."

Raylan moaned louder and threw a rock at the door. It hit with a loud crack.

The front door of the cabin exploded into pieces as one of the men inside panicked and shot blindly, putting a round from the shotgun dead center. Tim was up as Raylan started moaning, positioned and watching. The pieces from the door splintered straight out and he fired a shot into the middle of it, hoping to hit something. They heard a yelp and on that signal Raylan and Boyd were up and rushed the cabin. Tim's bullet had clipped the man with the shotgun, and he dropped in surprise and pain. The other man was frozen to the spot, eyes bulging in fear at what he imagined was coming through the door.

"Drop it!" Raylan yelled at Dean as Boyd pointed his shotgun at the man writhing on the ground.

Dean let the gun fall, his face slack with relief that Raylan was alive and talking.

"Kick it over and get face down on the floor. Now!"

There was no resistance. Raylan picked up the handgun, strode over, bent down and frisked the man, found another handgun and set both on the table then cuffed him. He went through the same procedure with Boyd's prisoner. Raylan almost felt badly about it, it was so easy. He whistled for Tim.

By the time Tim trotted across the road and up the stairs, Boyd and Raylan had Dean and his friend sitting primly on the couch and a collection of weapons displayed on the table. Tim headed straight for them.

He picked out his Glock and his revolver then turned furiously to the two men on the couch. "Where's my Beretta?"

The silence as the two men gaped at him, still not believing what they were seeing, settled Tim into a cold rage. He checked the clip in his Glock then turned to address the man he presumed was Dean. "Where the fuck is my Beretta? And you'd better not tell me you don't know."

"I don't know."

The aroma of dead flesh was overwhelming in the small room. Raylan coughed and covered his face. Boyd walked over to the doorway. Tim growled impatiently then huffed, resigned, "Oh, what the hell." He stepped over to the couch and wedged himself between the two men. They tried to move away but he put an arm around each of them and drew them in close. "Where's my Beretta? I like that gun. It has sentimental value and I want it back."

"You'd better answer him, fellows," Raylan suggested. "He's hungry...and he seems a bit angry, too."

"The Mexican liked it," Dean said.

"I'm sure the Mexican has a name," prompted Raylan.

"Martin."

"Martin…?"

"Just Martin."

"Okay, and where is Martin?"

Dean nodded at his friend. "At his place...near town," he gasped, turning his head away from Tim.

"I know the place," said Boyd.

Raylan nodded, "Alright then, let's go finish this. But what do we do with these two while we go round up Martin?"

"And get my Beretta back," Tim reminded him.

"And get Tim's Beretta back."

"Why don't I just shoot them? I dreamed about it all night." Tim wasn't smiling.

Raylan considered it, said, "Probably not worth the trouble you'd get for it."

"Fine. Anyone got some rope, then?" Tim asked. "I've got another idea."

"We've got rope." Dean was being helpful now that he thought he might live through Christmas.

* * *

"Now, Dean," Raylan scolded. "That wasn't the deal. Untie the rope so we can lower your friend down."

A little voice came up from the bottom of the mine shaft. "No."

"We could just throw this guy in," suggested Tim.

The little voice was edged with anger this time. "We should've just shot you!"

"Why didn't you?" asked Raylan, screwing up his face.

"I ain't killing no Fed. That's death row."

"And throwing me down a pit _isn't_ killing me?"

"We wanted it to look like an accident if anyone found you."

Raylan snorted. "You took his handguns and his phone. No one, Dean, I mean _no one_ would believe he left them up top and tripped down a mining hole. Stop killing your brain cells with meth. Though seriously, I think it's too late," he added for Tim and Boyd's amusement.

"Untie the rope, Dean," Boyd called. "The Marshals and I, we're on the clock. I have accepted an invitation to a Christmas dinner and I abhor being late."

"No!"

Boyd chambered a round noisily with his shotgun.

"Okay, okay!" Dean sobbed.

Tim caught the ejected round for Boyd and handed it back.

"Thank you, Marshal."

Tim grinned, starting to enjoy the man's company, a kindred spirit.

"But I'm wounded," Dean's friend complained as they lowered him over the edge a few minutes later.

"You'll live," Raylan assured him.

"Say hi to Chester for me," said Tim. "His friend was kind of quiet but Chester was good company."

"He certainly left a lasting impression. Go wait outside, Tim, will you? The smell's bad enough without you standing right beside me. Boyd and I'll finish up."

Dean's friend wheezed defiance from the bottom ten minutes later, "I ain't untying."

"Fine," said Raylan, "be that way," and he tossed the rest of the rope over the edge.

Boyd took one last look down the pit. "Your friend climbed out of there?" There was a touch of admiration in his tone.

"Don't ever get between Tim and his lunch," Raylan warned. "The man's capable of anything when he's hungry."

Boyd nodded solemnly. "I will bear that in mind, Raylan."

* * *

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	7. Chapter 7

**A Harlan Holiday – Chapter Seven**

Art was trying his best, for his daughter's sake, to be interested in the conversation he was having with his son-in-law. Brian worked for a small, privately-owned manufacturer, a success story really, a company that made one thing well and had an international clientele. Art's son-in-law was the factory manager.

Art's wife had warned him, like she warned him every holiday, not to talk about his work. So, when anyone asked: "Hey Art, how's work?" or "Hey Daddy, how's work?" he'd reply, "It's good. It's good. The kids are getting along this week." And they'd laugh. Unlike his son-in-law, he wouldn't wax poetic about the details of his day, the scum that he rubbed elbows with, the gory crime scenes he had to wade through, the constant worry when one of his deputies walked out the doors of the office and into that world of which his family, thankfully, was unaware. He could keep the guests mesmerized if he started, horribly entertained with the breadth and depth of the depravity of humanity. If his wife would just let him, he could be a show stopper. But instead he discussed baseball, the weather, mashed the potatoes and carved the meat.

The turkey was at the point when you could just start to smell it cooking, especially if you went upstairs or came up from downstairs, and that tantalizing aroma plus the frosty beer in his hand made the chore of listening to Brian lay out the production numbers for the last year bearable. It had been a long time since he had last wished for some excitement in his life and he kept that urge carefully under wraps, especially this holiday season. He had another mouthful of beer, disregarded the constant tickling in the back of his thoughts to check in with the office, and considered getting off his lazy behind to offer a hand with the cooking. And that was the Christmas scene that was interrupted when the call came.

Art's wife walked out from the kitchen, hand on her hip, holding the phone like it was a gift of another pair of hand-made socks from old Aunt Gertrude. She understood the life, even if she didn't like it. "Honey, it's the Harlan Sheriff's office."

"The Harlan Sheriff's office?" Art pulled himself out the chair, chortled, "That's highly unlikely. I think someone's having a little fun." He pointed at Brian. "You want another beer?"

"Sure thing."

"This is Chief Deputy Art Mullen, and a very Merry Christmas to you," he gamely answered, his voice grinning along with his eyes and his face – he was not going to be fooled by a bullpen prank instigated by a bunch of immature deputies with no better way to pass the time on Christmas Day.

"Hello, Chief Mullen, this is Sheriff Parlow from down in Harlan County. Sorry to bother you on Christmas Day, but I thought you should hear this. One of my deputies passed an abandoned truck out of town yesterday, out in the middle of nowhere. When he passed it again this morning, he decided to check it out. Registration came back to one of your deputies – uh, a Tim Gutterson. And, uh, we've tried to reach him, but…"

Art's amused face dropped off; business-as-usual took its place. "Any indication why it was left there?" Art asked.

"Nope. The keys were in the ignition. It started just fine. Nothing stands out other than it's Christmas and I suspect your man had someplace better to be today than the-middle-of-nowhere Harlan. Did you have someone down here on business?"

"Not that I know of."

Art rubbed his head vigorously. His wife gave her daughter the knowing look of thirty-odd years of marriage to a US Marshal – that with a little disappointment sneaked in which she tried hard not to show.

Art responded to the news, "Okay, I'm going to look into things at this end. I'll be in touch. Thanks for calling. I appreciate it."

"Wouldn't have not called. I hope it's nothing."

As soon as he hung up Art dialed Garcia, his senior deputy working the holiday shift. He earned himself a swat with a wet tea towel for the language that escaped as he listened to what Garcia had to tell him. Then having made his apologies to his family, he grabbed his work gear and headed out to his car. He saved the next phone call for when he was alone and could speak as colorfully as he wanted.

* * *

Raylan chose one of everything that looked marginally healthy to eat in the shop at the gas bar, and grabbed a quart of chocolate milk and some bottled water from the cooler. He rounded out his purchase with three coffees that smelled like burnt tar.

Tim jumped out of the cab of his borrowed truck when Raylan came out of the shop. "Stay!" Raylan commanded from across the parking lot, pointing a finger menacingly at Tim. Tim staggered to a stop. "Good dog."

He handed two coffees and a couple of packaged edible things to Boyd then walked over to Tim, holding out the offerings in one hand, plugging his nose with the other.

"That's two kisses I owe you," Tim joked, rifling through the bag and pulling out the chocolate milk. He opened it on the spot and guzzled the entire carton.

Raylan's phone rang as he watched Tim dig into a bag of salted peanuts and pop the lid on the coffee. He checked the display and went a bit pale. "Shit."

"Art?" Tim guessed around a mouthful, ripping into a package of beef jerky.

Raylan was clearly struggling over whether to answer or not.

"Better answer, Raylan," Tim mumbled sympathetically. "Get it over with. What's the worst that can happen?"

"He could have me shipped back to the beach…in a coffin." Raylan put the phone up to his ear. "Merry Christmas, Art," he answered cheerfully, making hushing motions at Tim. "Yeah, weather's great. Sunshine, cute little umbrella in my…" Raylan flinched and Tim grinned. "Well, if you already knew I wasn't, then why did you ask? That's entrapment."

Raylan dropped his head, kicked at the gravel. "Yes, I'm in Harlan." A pause. "No, Tim's fine. Well, mostly. He's standing right here." Another pause. "No, I won't put him on. He's not touching my phone. The man smells like a morgue. Just trust me, he's fine." A longer pause. "Now Art, before you get any angrier let me just say that it's a good thing Boyd and I…" Raylan flinched again, listened, sighed.

"Shouldn't have mentioned Boyd," Tim commented, a knowing shake of the head.

"We rescued Tim, Art," Raylan finally said, interrupting the list of all the words Art was not allowed to use at home. He gave Tim a warning look, a play-along-or-else cue. "It was a close call. He could've died. The cartel had him."

Tim made a face, hissed, "You didn't rescue me. I rescued myself, thank you very much."

Raylan covered the phone, jabbed a finger at Tim. "I bought you some snacks. You might've starved to death, so play along."

"Fine, but you owe me."

"Fine."

"You want me to swoon?" Tim mocked, hand held dramatically up to his forehead.

This time Raylan made the face then dropped it quickly, spoke into the phone again, "No, Art, seriously, you don't have to come down here. Tim and I have this well under control." He looked desperately at Tim. "Oh, you're already on your way? Okay. Yeah, no, we won't do anything until you get here. I promise. Okay. Yep. Okay. Okay."

He hung up. "Shit."

Tim was respectfully silent.

"He says he could hear you chewing," Raylan commented despondently.

Curious, Boyd wandered over, alternating sipping from his cup and grimacing at it. "By the sour look on your faces I'd be ready to believe that you were both the unhappy recipients of a lump of coal in your stockings this morning. Saint Nicholas not good to you boys today?"

"The boss is on his way," Tim explained.

"Ah."

"He wants us to stand down until he gets here," Raylan added.

"Just how long do you think we have before someone notices that Dean and his sidekick are suspiciously absent from their post?" Boyd commented.

Raylan and Tim exchanged a look. Raylan raised an eyebrow, an invitation. Tim shrugged, dug around some more in the bag of food.

"If it were up to me," he said, eyeing a Twinkie, "I'd just as rather go beat the shit out of someone and apologize for it later. I don't like being thrown into a mine shaft. I ache everywhere and it's too early to start drinking." He walked back to the truck, reached in and pulled out Raylan's revolver and returned it. "And I want my Beretta back… _now_. But you're the senior Marshal here, Raylan. If you want to wait for Art..."

Raylan searched Tim's face, wondering if he was really hearing what he thought he was hearing. "Are you trying to get _me_ fired for a change?"

"Payback's a bitch," Tim drawled. "Besides, what do you think Art has in mind for you now that he knows you're in Harlan rather than sitting on a beach in Mexico? We might as well thoroughly dig this hole."

Raylan looked at Tim like he'd sprouted antlers and a red nose.

"What?" Tim shrugged again.

"Who the hell are you?"

"They hit me on the head, took my guns, crammed me in the trunk of a car then threw me down a hole to die. Raylan, I spent Christmas Eve in the company of rotting corpses." Tim looked off to the side, wet his lips. There was little discernible emotion to read on his face or in his voice. He cocked his head. "I'm a tad irritated."

"You're a tad scary," Raylan stated. "But I like your logic. Let's saddle up."

Boyd was pleased with the decision. He turned back to his truck and pulled out his phone.

"Wait, Boyd – just you," Raylan ordered. "I can't be doing this with a posse of your gang. I'm in enough trouble."

"Why Raylan, you mistake me. I was just calling Ava. As you know, she enjoys a well-laid table at any festive holiday and I would not disappoint her for the world. I was going to suggest she hold off until she hears from me before putting on the potatoes."

"Oh…okay."

* * *

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	8. Chapter 8

**A Harlan Holiday – Chapter Eight**

Raylan wasn't happy with the number of cars parked at the house. "You're sure this is the place?" he checked again with Boyd. "This looks more like a Christmas dinner party than a hideout."

"This is the house in question," Boyd replied, "unless, of course, one of our friends lied to us. Though they did not strike me as being possessed with the resource of quick thinking."

"Well, shit. How many do you suppose are in there?"

"That _is_ the question of the hour."

They drove past the house, turned around and parked then followed the scent until they found Tim. He was playing his usual role, up the hill across the road, set up with his rifle and scoping out the evening's entertainment. After over four years working together, Raylan was getting good at finding him.

Raylan and Boyd came up behind him, making enough noise to alert him that they were approaching. Tim tended to get twitchy when he was in sniper mode.

"Can you see anything?" asked Raylan as he and Boyd settled in either side of him.

"A lot of hillbillies having an AK-47 party. No one looks particularly Mexican, but I can't see much. I'm wondering if something's tipped them off. They look like they're arming for a fight."

"May I?" Boyd gestured at the rifle.

Tim slid off the scope and handed it over. Boyd watched the house for over ten minutes then handed back the hardware and frowned.

"What?" Tim and Raylan spoke in unison.

"Of the five or so faces I could discern through the window, I only recognize one. I'd hazard a guess that they are hired guns. Out-of-state."

"I don't know how you can tell them apart," Tim commented. "They all look the same to me down here."

"This from the boy from northern Kentucky. You're not that far from this tree, buddy," Raylan commented.

"I try to forget that."

"Maybe they're security for transporting the drugs after they arrive in Harlan," suggested Raylan.

"Maybe," Boyd agreed. "Whatever their reason for being here, it does present us with a problem. We are sorely outnumbered."

"If you two can get them to start shooting at us, I can even out the odds." Tim set the scope back up and eyed his targets. "I just can't initiate it."

"No problem," Raylan assured him. "I'm sure I can think of something. Art would say I have a talent for getting people to shoot at me." He smiled proudly then motioned for Boyd to follow him. "Tim – you okay up here? It's too bad we don't have any radios."

"Locked and loaded. I've got you covered." Tim rolled his shoulders and made small adjustments in his body position. Satisfied, he added, his mantra for the day, "I'm going to get my Beretta back."

There was a separate garage on the property and a small shed in the yard. A treed lot lined one side, an open field of tall grass separated by a ditch the other, and more open field stretched out behind with a view of the hills. Five different vehicles were parked in front, suspiciously all newer pickups except for one. The sun set quickly below the horizon, cheated out of the sky early by the Appalachians west of town, but the early dusk provided Raylan and Boyd with a convenient supply of shadow, a definite advantage.

Tim tracked their movements until they disappeared behind one of the cars. He grinned and steadied his breathing when first one, then two, then three car alarms screamed into the evening. They were spooking the horses. He caught a glimpse of Raylan moving quickly to the side of the garage as the front door opened and two men with automatic rifles stepped cautiously out onto the porch. Through the window Tim could see movement toward the back of the house as well. He lined up his first target and waited.

The rock came out of nowhere. Raylan threw a straight hard pitch and hit one of the men smack in the head and he yelped and stumbled. Raylan called out, "US Marshals Service. Come out with…"

It was immediate pandemonium. The two men opened fire wildly and Raylan yelled, "Aw, to hell with it!" He ducked back behind the garage as bullets zipped past him from the front and the back.

Tim's rifle jumped when the first shots were fired. He took down one man on the porch then the second before he even realized his companion had fallen. Two more stepped out to take their place. Tim aimed and winged a third and the fourth dragged the injured man back inside. Tim put one more round through the front door as a deterrent before picking up his rifle and sprinting down the hill and across the road, running into the field at the side opposite Raylan and Boyd's position.

The men out back decided they had the advantage and the numbers and piled down the porch stairs to take the fight to Raylan. Boyd was crouched to the side and he stepped recklessly foreword, surprising them, and knocked the leader back into the group with a well-placed blast from his shotgun. He whooped happily as he retreated to the garage under Raylan's covering fire.

Running hard through the side field, Tim stopped abruptly when he saw the men firing at the garage. He crouched down, aimed and dropped the man with the AK-47 who was doing the most damage, then getting up again he leapt the ditch and ran for a position by the fence in the back field. He rested the rifle on a stringer and mechanically took down two more men before they figured out they were being shot at from behind as well as the side. They started firing randomly at the field as well and Tim decided it was time to find some cover.

He slipped the rifle over his shoulder and ran for the shed, firing his handgun blindly left-handed at the back of the house to keep them busy. Two of the hired guns saw easy prey and stepped out to take advantage of a visible target and Raylan casually picked them off. The last retreated, running for cover to the far side of the back porch, joining two more who had ventured out of the front.

There was a lull as they regrouped and through the quiet came the sound of three cars speeding along the road and pulling up in front, lights flashing. Raylan signaled to Tim to join them and he and Boyd laid down covering fire while Tim sprinted over.

"You call for backup?" Tim asked breathlessly after diving behind Raylan.

"Boyd here is apparently friendly with the Sheriff," Raylan replied. "He called him before we started."

"Is that a good thing? Can we trust him?"

"The Sheriff is loyal to me," assured Boyd.

Tim blinked, turned to Raylan. "Is _that_ a good thing?"

"It is today, Marshal," Boyd answered for him.

With the local deputies covering the front and Raylan, Tim and Boyd well-armed and covering the back, the few men remaining had little stomach left for fighting. It was all over but the killing and they opted for a different ending, surrendering without another shot fired.

Raylan identified himself loudly to the Sheriff's men and sauntered out from behind the garage with Boyd to make introductions and give explanations and help as the local deputies searched and cuffed and lined up the riffraff. Tim did a circuit, looking for his Beretta. The Sheriff and his men had things well under control and came out of the house gleefully later with a nice haul of heroin.

Raylan and Boyd were only spectators by this time and were happily watching the show when Tim came out of the house. He stomped down the porch stairs and walked over to stand with them.

Pointing out the drugs, Raylan chuckled, "Looks like Santa made it to Harlan."

Tim grunted.

"That was your cue to say 'it looks like we're going to have a White Christmas after all.'"

Tim wasn't playing along. Raylan looked over at him.

"Any luck finding your Beretta?"

He shook his head sadly.

"It'll turn up," Raylan comforted.

Tim slouched up to the edge of the front yard away from the crowd, leaned against a cruiser. The adrenalin was wearing off and the party wasn't as much fun anymore. He was tired. He idly watched a car pass on the road, slowing down to gawk at the flashing lights and the men in handcuffs. The passenger turned to look and he and Tim made eye contact. The recognition was immediate on both sides. It was the missing face – one of the three that Tim swore he would remember if he saw again – Martín, the Mexican. Tim reacted instinctively, dropping to the ground when the arm came out the window pointing a gun. Fortunately for Tim, the driver had flattened the accelerator just at the moment that Martín pulled the trigger. The car lurched forward and the bullet went wide of its target.

"Raylan!" Tim yelled, up and running out onto the road. "Raylan!" He aimed at the disappearing car, but the bend fifty yards down interfered with his shot. "Raylan! I need a car!"

Raylan had jogged across the yard. "Did someone just shoot at you?"

Tim was livid, almost vibrating. "He shot at me_ with my Beretta! _Goddammit! _I need a car_!"

"How do you know it was your Beretta?" Raylan asked as he jumped into the nearest cruiser.

Tim scrambled over the hood and into the passenger side. He turned to face Raylan, still yelling. "I JUST KNOW!"

Raylan was already spinning the tires in the dirt. The car screeched out onto the road and around the bend.

"Can't you go any faster?" Tim was rocking in his seat trying to increase their momentum.

Raylan huffed, "Tim, I never thought I'd have to say this to you, but buddy, calm down!"

"He shot at me with my own gun! That just really fucking pisses me off!"

"Okay, okay," Raylan attempted to soothe emotions while drifting precariously on all four tires around the next corner and into the City of Harlan.

Evening Christmas traffic was almost non-existent and Raylan careened recklessly down the main street, gaining ground. The chase took them past the town square, decorated garishly for the season with a line of electric snowmen and a Christmas tree, forty feet of towering greenery, sparkling lights, and glittering holiday bling.

Martín's car blasted through the next crossing on a red light and the only other driver out on the road at that hour, innocently unaware of the oncoming chaos and confidently cruising through the green, had to swerve to avoid a collision. He clipped the back end of the speeding car and both spun out and came to a stop, turned 180° from their original path on adjacent sidewalks. Raylan jammed his foot on the brakes and screeched to a halt. Martín's driver had maneuvered onto the road again and accelerated past Tim and Raylan back toward the town square. Throwing himself out of the car, Tim dropped to one knee and fired at the retreating vehicle.

The driver lost control when one tire then the other blew. He tried to keep a line, grinding the rims down the street, weaving like a drunk. Finally the car jumped the curb into the town square, mowing down each of the snowmen in turn, their wiry, frosty carcasses flipping over the hood and through the air. The car was losing speed quickly and finally stopped with a thud against the trunk of the festive Christmas tree.

Tim and Raylan approached cautiously, weapons drawn, as the car's doors swung open. The driver came out with his hands up, assuming the position on the pavement. Martín, on Tim's side, staggered from his seat and belligerently raised his weapon. Tim sprung at him, snarling, snatched the gun out of his hand and slammed a fist full of Glock into his face. The man dropped straight backward, holding his nose, the blood streaming in seasonal red down his chin.

Raylan looked over the top of the car and smiled. "Merry Christmas," he said, his heart warming finally to the holidays as he watched Tim hold his Beretta lovingly, checking it over. He finally clicked on the safety and tucked it possessively into his belt.

* * *

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**Author's note:** My apologies to the City of Harlan. I know I screwed with the Town map. But, if your disbelief hasn't already been well and truly suspended then you're not reading carefully. ;)


	9. Chapter 9

**A Harlan Holiday – Chapter Nine**

The Sheriff and one of his deputies had followed the chase, siren blaring, and Boyd, too, pulled up in his truck. They helped clear the scene, seated the villains in the back of the cruiser and stood tut-tutting in dismay at the ruined decorations. The occupants of the other car, shaken by the accident but unharmed and now curious, walked the block to see what was happening, picked up the snowman closest to the wreck and worked to stand it back up. No one shooed them away for contaminating a crime scene - it was a Norman Rockwell moment – and they all cheered when the snowman finally stood on his own, listing and slightly mangled.

Boyd strolled over, hands in his jacket pocket, relaxed, stood near Tim and the two of them looked up at the decorations on the Christmas tree. Boyd smiled contentedly, said, "I think it's safe to tell Ava to start setting the table. Did you get what you wanted for Christmas, Marshal?"

Tim was grinning his answer but held up his Beretta to be admired anyway. "It was under the tree."

Boyd nodded, satisfied.

Another car drove into the square, slowed down and stopped near the Sheriff's cruiser. Raylan frowned, recognizing the model. The window rolled down and Art looked sternly out. He did a slow sweep of the scene as he turned off the ignition. His eyes narrowed when they reached Tim and Boyd standing together, chatting and smiling like old friends, and positively hardened when they settled on Raylan.

Raylan decided to meet his doom head on. He sauntered across the square adjusting his hat, smiling a casual greeting to the Sheriff and his deputy as he passed, then stopped suddenly, uneasy but unclear why, turned in time to watch one of the men toss the still-lit butt of his cigarette in a slow arc onto the street.

Raylan's was the type of mind that made random connections – it was part of what made him a good lawman, having one thing remind him of some other thing and then the sum of the two things adding up to something significant. The unconnected thought that popped into his mind as he watched the embers fall from the glowing cigarette to the pavement was a phrase Tim had thrown at him a few days back: _two in the tires, one in the tank_. Unfortunately, these two seemingly unrelated actions could not coalesce into one significant thought fast enough to prevent what happened next.

"Oh shit," he said when they finally did produce a sum. Then Raylan reacted. "Fire! Get away from the car!"

Waving his hands madly, he ran parallel with the flames already scorching the air, a wave of disaster that raced toward the town square from the fateful cigarette tossed into the line of spilled gasoline to the hole shot in the tank of the getaway car. Anyone left around the scene sprinted out of harm's way as the sparks reached out igniting the remaining fuel and fumes. The car exploded. The hopeful upright snowman was crushed by a flying door and the Christmas tree caught and went up like dry timber. The flames crept skyward, climbing the tree, destroying each circle of decorations in horrifying slow-motion, the garlands dripping off the limbs in singed strings, lights exploding one by one, popping like a hundred Christmas crackers.

Tim appeared at Raylan's side. "Oops."

They stood together in silence for a moment watching Christmas go up in flames then Raylan spoke, "You know, I can't smell you so much anymore."

"I told you, you get used to it," Tim said. "Or maybe the smoke is masking the smell."

Raylan took off his hat, paying his respects to the day. "Art's here," he said gloomily, gesturing back over his shoulder.

Tim turned around to look, saw Art sitting in his car looking grave. "You need a hug?" offered Tim.

Raylan considered it, turned around, too. Art had plunked his head on the steering wheel.

Bravely, Tim walked over and opened the car door, peered in, concerned.

"You okay?" he asked.

Art turned his head to look at him, regretted it immediately, gagged and turned even paler.

"Art, you okay?" Tim repeated as Art covered his nose and waved him off. "A lot of people have heart attacks this time of year, especially at your age – all the stress from family gatherings, the financial strain." He paused, then added, "I guess you didn't you get my message about picking up some chestnuts, huh?"

Art waved him away again, frantically.

Raylan strode over, taking charge. "Tim, give the man some air."

Tim huffed, backed off. "What kind of Federal Marshals are you if you can't stand _this_ smell?"

Art climbed slowly out of the car, hands sliding up from his nose to cover his eyes. "Oh, God," he moaned. "I can't bear to look. This is…" He waved weakly at the scene. "This is…"

"A burning effigy to consumerism," Tim supplied. "It's performance Art, Art. Raylan and I are making a bold statement against the lack of spirituality in the season, the price-tag evil that we've allowed to permeate the holidays."

"That's right," agreed Raylan. "We're expressing ourselves."

Boyd had walked over, was standing as close to Tim as he could without choking. "Indeed," he concurred, "the common man should unite under this symbol, fight back against the tyranny of the 'buy-one-get-one-free' shysters, the addictive lure of the Boxing Day sales, the siren call of one more gift under the tree. Hallelujah, brothers, it's a glorious day." Then he smirked. "Now, if you will excuse me, I'm going home to enjoy my turkey dinner." He paused, serious for a split second, then added, "And in keeping with the season and as a gesture of goodwill, you are welcome to join Ava and me at the table if it would please you." He turned to leave, calling back over his shoulder, arms out, "The wolf and the lamb will feed together!" And with that, he climbed in his truck and drove out of sight.

Art surprised himself; he just let Boyd go. He justified his legal lapse by telling himself it was Christmas after all. "Isaiah 65:25," he sighed. "That man is a walking contradiction."

The three Marshals leaned against Art's car in a line watching the bonfire. They grimaced in chorus as the brightest ornament at the top of the tree finally caught, falling off its charred post and toppling. It bounced on each tier on the way down, a shooting star, landing with a nerve-jangling crash of splintering red and gold glass and melted metal framework.

Art sighed loudly, pushed off the car and moved over, putting Raylan between himself and Tim, an olfactory buffer. He settled comfortably again and said, "There's a good story here, I assume?" He leaned forward and looked sideways at his boys. Tim opened his eyes expressively but kept his mouth shut and let Raylan do the talking.

Raylan checked his watch. "I bet, Art, if you were to leave right now, the turkey would still be warm when you got home."

"Maybe," Art agreed, "but the reception might be a bit cool. I think I'll stay. Keep an eye on things here."

Raylan nodded, his eyes searching the square looking for another excuse to send Art back to Lexington.

Art interrupted the desperation. "I guess I shouldn't be too upset. At least there aren't any bodies under that tree."

"Did anyone call the fire department?" Raylan inquired, changing the subject.

Art dropped his head on his chest. "Oh God," he groaned. "Where are the bodies?"

Tim spoke up. "Which ones?"

* * *

After listening to Raylan's abridged version of events, padded out with Tim's abduction story, Art decided he'd rather deal with a disgruntled wife than the bureaucratic nightmare left in the wake of his deputies' Harlan holiday. He got in his car and left, hoping the drive home would be long enough to work out his anger and anxieties and get the smell of Tim out of his nostril hairs.

Dean and his friend were rescued then arrested and the Sheriff agreed that the statements and the reports could wait until morning. He, too, was expected at a Christmas feast. He let Raylan and Tim leave with the promise of a meeting the next day.

They drove in Dean's truck to Boyd's house to get the rental car back. Ava insisted they eat before leaving; she also insisted they shower. She hunted up a few items of clothing that she'd kept that belonged to Bowman, gave them to Tim along with a garbage bag for his things. The four of them sat down to eat formally in the dining room. Raylan was charming and Tim charmed, eating seconds of everything and lavishing praise on the cook. Boyd enjoyed the irony. Everyone colluded wisely to keep the conversation off the topic of work.

* * *

"Shit Raylan, why is this so important to you?" Tim was giving new meaning to the word 'slouch', almost horizontal on Arlo's couch.

"Because," was Raylan's mature reply.

Raylan and Boyd had dared Tim into sharing in some homebrew after dinner. He'd matched them glass for glass and eventually the local boys had to concede the game and they ended the contest by toasting Tim's alcohol tolerance and making him an honorary Harlan County citizen. Tim was too drunk to be insulted. Raylan was too drunk to drive very far, but they made it at least to Arlo's and found some bourbon to settle their stomachs.

Raylan had decided that this was his chance to solve the mystery of Rachel and Tim. His prey was weak and he went for the kill. It might have been a quicker hunt if either of them were more sober.

Tim repeated, slurring, "_I said_, 'Shit Raylan, why is this so important to you?'"

"'Cause I feel like you're holding back on something. And I don't like that. It gets my neck hairs going. Like someone's lying to me."

"Yeah, I've heard that before from you, but…" Tim hung his head a moment and when he raised it again he looked tired, tired and drunk. "Maybe it's just none of your business. Are you going to try and control your whole world?"

"As much of it as I can," Raylan answered. "I'm happier that way. I feel safer."

Tim screwed his eyebrows together in a knot and considered the man sitting across from him. "Good luck with that," he said finally. "You'll make yourself miserable trying." He leaned forward and grabbed the bottle, pouring another hefty shot in each glass. "Merry Christmas," he said, raising his. "I'll give you a present, 'cause I'm sick of you nagging me." He took a good mouthful, grimacing as he downed it. "I had a total fucking meltdown three months into my time here in Lexington. It was Chernobyl all over. A perfect storm of triggers and timing and I was…I don't know. I guess it was a breakdown of sorts – I discovered that later. It's supposed to make me feel better that it's not uncommon for guys like me coming back, but…shit. I was sure they were going to fire me I was drinking so much. I was working with Rachel and she ran interference for me, covered it all up. Looking back though, I think Art knew." Tim shrugged. "I owe her. She was great."

Raylan waited long enough for Tim to pour two more drinks. "That's it?" he blurted out finally.

"Easy for you to say. Christ, Raylan, I was coming apart."

Raylan looked disappointed.

"You were hoping for compromising photos?" Tim jested.

Raylan smiled. "Nah, I just don't think that's anything for you to be ashamed of."

"Tell that to my ego."

"Art wouldn't have fired you."

"I wouldn't be so sure."

"He hasn't fired me."

"Yet. Wait'll he gets the body count. We'll both be applying at the mall."

Raylan chuckled. "I'm definitely in for some form of lecturing and yelling, but they won't get rid of me now. I've stirred up Harlan so bad, no one but me could sort it out." Raylan grinned like a schoolboy then took a turn, leaned in and grabbed the bottle, poured another hefty shot each. He downed his and grimaced. "I don't think you need to worry, either. Art told me something in confidence, and I'll repeat it for you since you so nicely shared today, and I'm so nicely drunk – you'd have to fuck up big to get fired, Tim. Art says tactical were wetting themselves when they saw your application."

Tim considered that information carefully and didn't much like it. "And this is you cheering me up?"

"Yep. Is it working?"

"Nope. It's not amusing me, either."

"I could dance."

Tim set his face into a flat stare.

Raylan raised his eyebrows and grinned.

"I'm going to grab a blanket and a bed if that's okay," said Tim, staggering to his feet. "I didn't enjoy my night at the Hilton Mineshaft."

"I hear they have hard mattresses."

"I've slept in worse places, but man, I'm getting too old for that shit." Tim dragged his feet out of the room.

"_You're_ getting too old," Raylan mumbled to himself after Tim was out of earshot. He poured himself another glass of bourbon and listened to his guest hunting around upstairs for a blanket, then a door shut and it was quiet. He stood up to stretch and almost fell over. "Oops," he whispered, set the glass down untouched and wandered the house waiting to be tired.

* * *

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	10. Chapter 10

**A Harlan Holiday – Chapter Ten (Epilogue)  
**

"Why would he do this? I feel like someone's told me that there is no Santa Claus." Tim did look like he'd just been betrayed by his best friend.

"Because," Raylan explained, "the man is an evil punishment genius. He can deal out retribution with a smile and often you don't even know it's punishment until you're in the middle of it and by that time it's too late. You could die and wake up in hell and think you were getting off lightly in comparison. I used to watch him with the trainees at Glynco…" Raylan left it at that, a knowing look and some room for Tim's imagination to take over, then shook his head in awe and admiration. "Evil genius."

"I'm glad he was gone before I got there."

"And I'm glad he was still working in the field when I went through."

"And to think, I actually chose to work for him."

"If I'd known you then, I'd've warned you…maybe." Raylan smirked.

Raylan finished signing one set of release forms then started on the next. The prisoner they'd dropped off was Eddie "The Mouth" Edison, grifter, car thief, fraud artist, octogenarian, his nickname given to him affectionately by the Kentucky law enforcement personnel for his penchant for telling, retelling and retelling stories of his glory days, each time more exaggerated and unbelievable. The ride was excruciating, and longer than necessary since Eddie had to stop to use the bathroom five times. Tim and Raylan were patient with that inconvenience – unless someone shot them first there was going to come a time when they, too, were slaves to their prostates. It was a solidarity thing – guys had to stick together.

Art had phoned when they were on their third pee break to tell them they had a prisoner to collect at the other end. He wasn't due to be picked up for a couple of days but it seemed a more efficient use of time and resources and tax-payers' money to do the transfer early and Art had gone out of his way to clear it with the prison and the local lock-up. He was very organized and thorough.

The prisoner was Dewey Crowe.

"You brought back-up?" Dewey looked confused, but then again he always looked confused. He puffed up his chest, sneered, "They worried about you driving alone with me?"

Raylan huffed, eyed his prisoner. "Worried for your sake, you idiot. Get in the back."

"Aw, I wanted to ride shotgun," he whined.

"I'll ride in the trunk," Tim offered. "It's not a problem."

Raylan closed his eyes. "Shit."

* * *

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**Author's note:** Thanks for reading and reviewing the silliness. The holidays are over and it's time to get back to work. As a morally serious aside: Driving drunk is just effing stupid. Don't do it. And I do not condone violence to solve problems. This world aforewritten is a _fairy tale_, like the ones with witches in the woods that eat children. It makes for great storytelling but lousy living.

Happy New Year to all!


End file.
